Nothing Left To Say
by Summoner Luna
Summary: He's always on the other end of a gun, and he always survives. -One-shot, Ward, post What They Become.- -Do you know what it's like to be unmade?-


Ward has been shot before.

Many times, as it turns out. Hydra, S.H.I.E.L.D., protégé-it doesn't matter what he is or whom he serves. They all put him on the other end of a gun at some point, and he always survives.

Until, perhaps, now.

.

The pain is not as bad as he knows it should be, and he blames it on surprise. Usually he knows he's about to be shot. Usually he knows when he's about to be betrayed.

 _betrayed._

The word slides down until it rests on top of the blood he is choking on and he feels it bob up and down, and wonders if it is the right word to use.

 _I gave you what you wanted-_

He sputters, and each word of her response burns a literal hole in his chest.

 _(i. didn't. want. this.)_

His eyes close, and the last thing he sees is a flash of black hair.

.

He steps off the elevator into a hallway, long, luxurious, and entirely out of focus. Beside him is a woman of Asgard, and they will be safe here for awhile.

He opens the door and she lets slip a girlish gasp, and Ward turns to her and slides his hand against her hips. The door slams behind them, and in this modern palace he pays his respects to this woman, this goddess, and she reminds him he can still be surprised sometimes.

She taunts him, after, and whether her doing or his own delirium she shifts into someone smaller, someone younger. Her laugh is no longer seductive, replaced by something far more innocent and genuine, and when he tries to turn away she grabs the back of his neck and pulls him in, and whispers something that sets ice into his skin.

When she lets him go he is in the dark, and the pain in his chest is back. There is someone moving beside him, applying pressure to his wounds, and he swallows a scream.

 _she will be the end for you, you know-_

.

It has gone too far.

Ward knows this, and he spends hours staring through the glass regardless. Her skin is the color of the pillowcase and he recognizes the sunken look of her eyes. He's seen that look often enough to know, and the nausea that rises as he watches her die infuriates him.

It has gone too far, and he only has himself to blame.

He hears Simmons' quick footsteps and twists his face into something neutral, something almost bored. She raises an eyebrow at him when she sees him outside the med-bay, and he mumbles something he can't remember, something that makes Simmons shake her head and shoo him out of her way.

He steps back, and watches her work, and if he isn't questioning the mission, he is at least questioning himself.

He would have taken the bullet, if he'd been able, and he doesn't entirely know why.

.

For a moment-for one brief, perfect moment-he has no allegiance. He has no mentor, no agenda; he has nothing except the taste of her lips and the faint scent of her hair, something floral, mixed with blood and gunpowder. She is convinced he is going to die, and he's not entirely certain he won't, and he wonders if it isn't for the best.

It's only a matter of time, he knows, and she isn't going to understand. She will hate him, and she should, and despite that knowledge, he is convinced there is something that will show her he isn't all bad. ( _i'm not-right?)_

But now her hands are pressed tightly against him, and when he opens the door, he is aware of the feeling of fighting _for_ something-not against something, not for survival, but for a _purpose._

And when she is alive, and he is alive, he is disappointed and relieved and angry and _terrified_.

He'll find a way to make this up to her.

.

She is sitting in the interrogation room, guarded and defiant.

She is standing in front of Garrett, and is nobody's prisoner.

She is meeting her father, and it is nothing like she expected, and he has made the wrong choice, has made all the wrong choices-

.

 _-the ground shudders around her and she is afraid-_

.

 _pop. pop. pop. pop._

He falls back, stunned, and she leaves; "Never turn your back on your enemy. You taught me that."

He coughs up blood, and they are the last words he thinks he will ever hear.

.

Ward opens his eyes. His chest is burning, and his head feels like he's been hit by a bus. There is a woman asleep in a chair beside him, slight, and dark haired. A mockery of someone he knew, if he ever knew her at all.

She stirs, and for a moment, her eyes meet his.

"H-" his voice is dry.

"Welcome back," she says, and hands him a cup of water. Her hand is shaking, and there is desperation painted across the mask she calls a face.

He takes a sip, and they sit, and in their silence, he remembers a recording he heard, a lifetime ago:

 _Do you know what it's like to be unmade?_

He hands the cup of water back, and their eyes meet again. She is May. She is Skye. She is all of them and she is none of them. She takes the cup and stands and leaves the room, and Ward is left with all the risks he never took, and all the ones he shouldn't have.

* * *

 _I've been wanting to write something for this fandom for awhile, and figured it would be Skye!fic, but then Ward happened. Probably too short for my first time in a new fandom, but hopefully the next one will be more substantial!_


End file.
